Page 8 of Cruel Promise

So, with trembling fingers, I open the car door and get inside. Edmund nods once and gets behind the driver’s wheel. He doesn’t lock me in. He doesn’t hit me.

He just drives.

I watch every turn and every road we take until we reach a large, grand Gothic-looking mansion in the heart of Billionaires’ Row.

“Is this it?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“This is it.” Edmund gets out of the car and opens my door for me, holding out his hand. For some reason, I take it. He offers me a kind smile that doesn’t help my fears. He may be a somewhat nice man, but he’s working for a horrible one, and that means I can’t let Edmund’s smiles lure me into a false sense of security.

The large double doors open up into a grand foyer that’s bigger than the apartment my mom and I shared.

I choke up at the thought of my mom. I still haven’t let myself cry because once I cry, it all becomes real.

“Oh good, you’re here,” a woman says, hurrying into the room. She’s plump and older, looking more like a fairy godmother than anything else. “I’ve set up your room, dear.”

I blink. “Are—are you talking to me?”

“Why, yes. Who else would I be talking to?” She pauses, then flutters her hands around her face. “Oh, my manners. I’m Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper.”

“Charlotte,” Edmund tells me. “But we all call her Lottie.”

“I like to keep an air of respectability,” she says. “But if you insist, you can call me Lottie.”

“Oh, uh … Mrs. Brown is fine.” It’s strange getting to know the employees of this household when I was just bought by their boss, a man I’ve never met before.

She offers me a warm smile. “All right, dear. Your room is on the second floor, second door on the right. Come to me if you have any questions.” Then she flitters away.

“I’ll show you around,” Edmund says.

The first thing I notice about this house is how empty it feels. In the living room, there’s nice furniture but no pictures on the walls or mantels. There are no shoes kicked off in the entryway. There are no signs that anyone really lives here except for the staff.

Everything is decorated in dark tones—blacks, grays, and the occasional white. There’s no other color anywhere.

It’s like stepping into a black-and-white film.

In the kitchen, the only spot of color is the man standing next to a counter, chopping up carrots. The sight of the carrots makes me think of my mother, and I have to hold back the tears.

“This is Claude,” Edmund introduces. “He’s the chef.”

Claude looks me over before turning his nose up to me. “Another stray, Edmund?”

Anotherstray? I’m too scared to ask.

Edmund sighs. “Ava will be Mr. Petrov’s wife. Show some respect.”

I practically jump ten feet into the air. “Wife? No one said anything about marriage?”

“Why else did you think Mr. Petrov wanted you?”

“I have no idea why he wants me. I’ve never met him.”

Claude scoffs. “Typical American. So dramatic.”

“Come on,” Edmund says, guiding me out of the kitchen. “I’ll take you to your room.” He leads me upstairs, which is more of the same black, white, and gray interior.

“Edmund, what exactly is going on here?” I ask.

“Um, well, Mr. Petrov will explain that to you. In time. Here we go.” He opens a door and motions me inside. “Your room.”

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